The Return of Sherlock Holmes
by zombie-saurus
Summary: After the death of Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson finds it hard to survive in the world without the missing piece of his heart. After attempting to commit suicide, he discovers a mysterious letter hidden in his flat 221B.


It is a cold, damp, winter morning. The leaves of the trees wave slowly to one direction as the wind shifts gently against my face. I walk along the path slowly, as I feel a sudden weight placed onto my chest, as if someone had just stabbed me right through the heart at this very moment. I look up suddenly to stare at the words of my friends name engraved onto his gravestone, 'SHERLOCK HOLMES'. The man who left me, alone in this dull, boring world––the man who stole my amazement from the first time we met each other––and then the man…who broke it into millions of tiny little pieces.

* * *

"An' you," I raise my hand in the air, pointing a finger towards the man whom stands in front of me, my words slurring and my legs wobbling while doing so. "Well, you're just a big cunt!" I snigger to myself; my face painted bright red and flushed, as I am very drunk. The man lifts an unfriendly eyebrow at me, and swings his fist full force to the left side of my face, breaking the nasal bone in my nose and making it bleed to run down to my lips. I lean down towards the rough dirtied ground, and put my hands onto my knees heavily, trying to catch my breath while coughing up blood and saliva from my throat. I take deep, painful breathes through my chest, peeking an eye open to the man above me, as he swings for another punch, harsher than the one before, and kicks me to the ground, I hitting my head off of it, and probably leaving it with a crack in the skull. I lay there in pain, blood marks, cuts and grazes covered all over my body.

"Bastard! Think you can hit it on with my girlfriend?" said he, forcing the heel of his shoe onto my right cheek, leaning onto it roughly making me moan out in pain, and looking at me disgracefully, spitting down onto me like I am a piece of trash. He walks ahead back into the pub, while I continue to lay here, unable to move as my ribcages have taken such a painful effect from the fight, and my eyesight beginning to blur also, giving me a blast full migraine striking right through my head.

A sudden drop of cold rainwater falls from the dimmed, grey, cloudy sky, sliding onto my face and running down slowly to my neck. It is actually a very peaceful moment, even though I am laying here on the ground covered in my own blood, and dirt off of the ground, it's one of the most beautiful-lest views to set upon on. The way the stars and moon glows brightly against the grey sky, showing off in how wonderful they are. Then a sudden memory comes to thought.

_"I'm a fake."_

_"Sherlock..." said I, holding the slim phone into the palms of my hands._

_"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly; in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you... that I invented Moriarty for my own purposes._

_"Ok, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met––the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"_

_"Nobody could be that clever."_

_"You could."_

A tear appears from the corner of my eye, my face scrunching up from all the memories of Sherlock filling up my mind. A dark, long silhouette appears in the mist, my eyes widening from the very sight of it, not being able to look away, and a sudden fear invading all around the nerves of my body. It gradually becomes closer towards me, and bends down at the side of me, gripping onto my arm tightly, and its mouth moving to me, like it was speaking to me, but I couldn't understand what it was saying…I couldn't hear anything? "Sherlock?" I managed to say, in a stutter tone, looking up at the body in front of me, shaped as his. His brown curls, his slender fingers…but it couldn't be. Sherlock…he's…he's dead.

* * *

I slowly open my eyes awakening––the sun shining brightly into my left eye, and I closing them slightly, covering them up with my palm. I make my way to sit up from a couch I am laying on, remembering just a small glimpse of last night, and then suddenly feeling a shooting pain spread across my body, from my head, to my spine, to my arms, to my thighs, and then into the area of my legs. I sit still silently for a few moments, waiting for the pain to fade off, and while doing so, I regain my eyesight back clearly from the migraine, which still had affected me from last night. _What happened last night? I can't remember a single thing._ I thought to myself, not even concluding to where I am. I turn my head slightly to left of where the door is, and a being walks in, with a light blue mug held in his hands, steam evaporating from above.

"Greg…" said I relieved, inhaling oxygen into my lungs and taking a deep breath out, rubbing my hands continually over my eyelids as they seem to be rather sore from the lack of sleep I have been getting recently. He smiles gently towards me and acts as if everything is fine, but by the look of his face, anyone could tell he was terribly worried about me.

"You know my name today then?" He softly speaks, a fake chuckle coming from the back of his throat.

"Ah look…I'm really sorry about that. I don't even know why I…I'm just, sorry."

"Nah, look, it's nothing. I know that you're still having a hard time recovering over…you know, Sherlock's death, three years ago." Replies Greg with a touch of hesitance through his teeth, not knowing if he should even bring up the name Sherlock anymore. He is rather much right though, every time I hear just the first letter of his name, it reminds me of his fall, replaying over and over again like a broken record. The cold dead body lying on that pavement, his blood painted all over it-

-he holds out the blue mug held in his hand towards me, as my eyes spring open, coming back to reality and taking it gently, the warmth of the fluid swelling up into my palms."Thanks." Said I, taking a sip from it silently.

"Ah, well…ahem, if you need anything at all, I'm always here." Replied Greg awkwardly, trying to comfort me and putting his hand onto my right shoulder, squeezing it a little. I nodded back smoothly and returned with a very small smile, which was gone less than a split second."Yeah. I better be going now anyway." Said I, removing myself from the couch and walking towards the wooden chair with my jacket hung over it.

"Of course," Greg replied, moving out of the way so I could reach for my jacket. "Try not to get yourself into too much trouble, yeah?" Said he, rather concerned but saying in a jokingly way not to make it all too obvious.

"It was nice seeing you again, Greg. Thanks for everything."

"Yeah…I'll see you soon John. Take care."

* * *

I return to the flat 221B, turning the doorknob with a rather poorly unbalanced grip, shopping bags held in each of my hands. I take a deep breath, and step into the doorway––quite quietly actually, considering it is my own flat––and close the door behind me. I drop the shopping bags at the side of the hallway, and slip off my shoes as well as my jacket, chucking them untidily also to the side of the hallway. I run my fingers through my hair, and I walk into the living room calmly, heading towards the kitchen, until there… I find myself face to face with a man I had not seen in years. His legs crossed over each other on Sherlock's chair, slanted in a lazy position, and a smile gaped across his face.

"Doc-_tor_ _Wat_-son."

* * *

"Mycroft." Said I, seated uncomfortably on the opposite chair, feeling agitated from the sudden appearance of this man.

"Looking well, Watson." Replied he smiling, a face of seriousness hidden behind that devilish smile, and his eyelashes fluttering silently.

"What do you want?" Harshly spoke I, getting straight to the point, and unwelcoming his presence altogether. Seriously, who actually has the patience to deal with this man now a day's? "

"You seem nervous. I hope I haven't made an impression of every time I come to see you is to want something for my own value, have I?"

"Have you not?"

He replies with a small snigger, and his devilish smile remains.

"What do you want?" I repeat, clasping my hands together onto my legs.

"I am in need of a few files Sherlock owned which will come too great use of my business at the moment." Said he, moving into another position on the chair.

"Files?"

"_Yes._" Said he in a long, slow and mischief tone. "_They are kept in a small safe behind his cupboard. The numbers are 221 to unlock it. If you wouldn't but mind to fetch them for me,_ John?" he finishes, his smile disappearing and his emotion looking rather suspicious.

"Sherlock never told me about a safe before?" I replied, slanting my head slightly to the left.

"Ah, well, Sherlock _was_ full of secrets dear Watson." I continue to stare at Mycroft for a few moments, and then I make my way up from my seat, toddling along towards Sherlock's bedroom keeping a close eye on Mycroft on the way.

"Thank you dear Johnny boy…" Mycroft says slowly, watching John as he disappears on his way to the bedroom, while pressing a button on his phone and holding it up to his ear. "Very gullible, your John is, isn't he?"

"Is the note under the desk table?"

Mycroft slowly perks his hand into his waistcoat pocket, and lifts out a neatly folded envelope, sitting it under the legs of a small desk table near the couch."It seems so-" He inhales a bit of oxygen, and then begins to speak again, "-Ah yes, Dear little brother, may I ask, _how_ exactly did you survive that fall? I am much of a witness as all the others, seeing your bashed up body thrown into that grave…quite unpleasant it was if I may admit."

A small gasp appears from the other side of the phone, and a low, hollow voice begins to speak through the wired cables. "That…is none of your business-"

"It is in fact all of my business, Sherlock. If you may have forgotten, but I am still your elder brother…keeping in mind that I occupy a minor position in the British Government. Therefore, I would rather wish you would stop being troublesome for me."

No reply was received.

"I've done a lot for you Sherlock. However, it seems I am not getting very much in return? Maybe little John Watson here may be of great use? He's quite the shattered vase in all of this-"

Sherlock grits his teeth tightly from the words of his brother, and grips onto the phone with a surprising strength.

"-Oh, It seems you do not know? Yes, he looks as if he is ready to commit suicide anytime soon. I don't see why I shouldn't agree with him though; you did leave him after all."

"I didn't _leave_ him."

"Don't play stupid with me Sherlock; it doesn't suit you very well."

* * *

I turn the doorknob slowly to Sherlock's bedroom, taking a deep breath while standing in the hallway. I close my eyes tightly, and swung the door open, rushing through the bedroom until I was fully inside. I gradually open my eyes…and god…this was all just too much. It felt like my heart had suddenly shattered into millions of pieces. Everything around me, reminded me of Sherlock. Of course, everything was in boxes, but I could picture his whole room from inside and out. His desk still in the same place, his walls covered in files and cases; the sight made my stomach turn. I clenched my fists to keep in all my feelings, and walked towards the cupboard against the wall, moving it aside with a few movements. I stopped, and stared at the wall. There was nothing there. Just a bare, half-pealed up painted wall. How could I not notice? It's Mycroft for Christ's sake! Of course, there isn't a safe?

I placed the cupboard back to where it was and made my way back into the living room. "Mycroft, there isn't a safe-"

"John." Said the low, deep voice. He and Mycroft surprised and staring at me.

A sudden dizziness entered inside of my mind, my legs wobbling, my eyes and lips drying up.

Sherlock. Sherlock's there. He's right there; standing…he's-

-and just as I knew it, everything was blank.

**Will be continued soon.**


End file.
